


You love who you love

by Maura_Moo



Series: Newsies tumblr fic dump [3]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst, Blood, Fist Fights, Gay Racetrack Higgins, Good Boyfriend Spot Conlon, Hurt Racetrack Higgins, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Italian Racetrack Higgins, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Protective Spot Conlon, Racetrack Higgins Needs a Hug, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins-centric, Wounds, brief mentions of Jack Kelly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:07:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29524797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maura_Moo/pseuds/Maura_Moo
Summary: He tries not to linger on the words that they burn into his brain, he tries to not focus on the hashness of the words that hurt a lot more than their punches and kicks. His lover was fine, he didn’t have to anything to fear about.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Series: Newsies tumblr fic dump [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168985
Kudos: 14





	You love who you love

Theres the taste of blood that burns on his tongue as he paces through the half-empty new york streets. He spits at his damanged reflection in rippled puddles and scoffs at the pain that slices through his ribs. He slows his pace, gaint uneven as he stumbles into the nearest alleyway. He can feel the bruises starting to grow under the stained fabric of his shirt, his suspenders feel unusually tight against his skin, as if they were stubborn hands, grapping and peircing his skin with sharp knives. 

His chest heaves and his breath wrestles with the pain in his chest as he gulps in air. All he can feels is pain and the feeling of blood drying against his paled skin. Blue eyes scan anxiously around and he’s almost thankful that his only witnesses to the damange are the bricks in the wall and the rats that scurry fretfully away. Even bruised knuckles and hands ache as he fumbles over broken buttons and bloodied fabric. The air is cold and it stings when it makes contact with his bruised chest.

His ribs stick out at awkward angles under his skin and his legs feel like jelly, they collapse under his pained weight and he settles on the dusty floor, almost thankful to have the stability. He listens to the wistling wind, the scurrying vermin, the muffled sounds of his own cries echoing in his head. 

There’s not much Race regrets in life, but falling in love with a man and getting caught with his lips against his was one of them.

He rakes a hand through his blonde curls and sighs, his fingers no longer feeling like his. His eyes felt like they were floating in the raging seas of the harbour not settled in his head, Race was sure he was going to die in some random alley in the middle of Manhattan alone with nothing more than rats and the stars in the sky looking at him. 

He wondered if the night sky would be the last thing he’d see, the stars blinking down at him with the innocence that he’ll never get back. The stars are not dictated by rules or the harshness of the world. 

Race knows he’ll never see above the stars, He knows he will never see heaven. 

He tries not to linger on the words that they burn into his brain, he tries to not focus on the hashness of the words that hurt a lot more than their punches and kicks. His lover was fine, he didn’t have to anything to fear about. 

Being the king of Brooklyn and having the newsies fear you has some perks. 

Nobody would dare throw a punch at Spot. His sexuality never comes into question, he’s never called out for grabbing ahold of Hotshot’s hand and holding it for a little longer than normal. He’s never teased about the lingering stares passed between him and other newsies, the strong eyes of the Brooklyn leader gentle for the breif seconds. 

Nobody ever questions Spot.

Everybody questions Racetrack.

As he slumps against the wall, Spot walks into his mind. Eyes soft and voice even softer. He kneels in front of Race and his fingers tremble against the splotches on his chest. Pain lashes through his body like a knife and a scream echoes against the walls.

“Shh Race”

“W-why the fuck are you here? S-shouldn’t you be in Brooklyn” His voice is cold and eyes even colder as he blinks away unshed tears. Spot doesn’t deserve his tears. Just like Race doesn’t deserve his love.

The beatdown was his fault. 

With his warm brown eyes darker than early morning coffee and lips so full that the desire to kiss them floods Race in warm spring tides. With short cut brown hair that stings Race’s fingers as he rakes his hands through it. 

Skin so warm and pale that Race feels almost awash with pride when its covered in bites and marks. Marks that he leaves him, marks that Spot can brush his fingers over; in the darkness of night, picuturing Race is laying next to him, his lips against his skin, his fingers brushing shapes on his inner thigh. 

Spot Conlon is a drug and Racetrack Higgins is addicted to him. 

Spot existing is the reason why Race is laying in some random allyway, bloodied and beaten. Spot allowing Race to love him.

And Race falling for him is the reason why he’s laying here waiting for the fires of hell to consume him. “I’m here cause I love youse” Those words sting as they soak through the haze of his thoughts. 

Their love was forbiddian, a sin. Something they could go to prison for- or worse.

“well don’. Lemme die. Thats what the world wants…don need no more fa-“ Spot cuts him off with a kiss and it tastes like poison. 

Poison that Race eagerly submits too. He kisses back, allowing the way Spot tastes flood his system, pound through his body and illict only self-hatrid. 

"Dont.” Spot whispers when he pulls away, eyes searching Race’s half closed ones. He sees the sparks of love in the blonds eyes, watches how self-hatrid extinguishes the fires that warm the deep blueness of his eyes. Spot sighs, resting his forehead against Race’s. He knows what theyre doing is wrong. 

But love should never be wrong. Spot didn’t choose to fall in love with Race. Other people’s common sense may say its wrong, that them walking hand-in-hand was against God and they were both sick sinners. Spot didn’t care and he didn’t understand why Race cared. But he couldn’t change the way he feels about the world, he couldnt stop the words from digging deep wounds in his supple skin, he couldnt stop him from thinking of himself as nothing more than something to be ashamed off.

Race feels sick with guilt. He lays his head against the other males and soaks himself in his eyes. Through the fog and the pain and internalised homophobia, Spot’s voice lingers in his brain. Tears roll slowly down his face and he allows Spot to pull him up. 

It’s much darker when they stumble through the door to the lodging house and Race immediently tenses off Spot’s shoulder and stumbles into the living room, midly aware of the eyes on him. “The fuck happened to ya Race?” Jack asks, wrapping a brotherly arm around his second in command. 

“What the fuck do it look like?” He spits back, the taste of Spots lips still a phantom on his. He looks over his shoulder at him, eyes begging for him to stay. “I got soaked, Delancy’s caught me out a'night” He explains, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack looks over at Spot, raising an eyebrow in question before beakconing him into the room. “M gonna go grab some cloths ‘nd stuff, can ya keep him company?” Spot nods and kneels by the chair that Jack settles Race on. 

They sit in silence until Jack leaves. There’s the squeak of the chair before Race’s hands are wrapped around Spots suspenders and his lips are against his. Spot pauses, before melting in the kiss, hands wrapping around Race’s wrists. 

They kiss until breathlessness steals the blonde away. Spot struggles to breath, mind blank and lips blissfullly half parted. “Y-youse never kissed me like t-tha before.” His voice is low and it makes Race chuckle, until a rush of pain pounds his body and he grabs at his ribs. 

“M sorry Racer. I shouldn’t of kissed ya in the street, o I should have seen the Delancys comin’ or-" 

"Spot. Don’t" 

There’s an almost blissful silence that soaks through the room and Jack feels almost criminal to walk back in with a bucket of warm water and rags. 

They blink at him and he just shrugs, putting the things in his hands down and smiles. "’M gonna go ta bed, Ya welcome ta stay Spot, we gotta spare bunk. M soire y’all wake up before mornin, so nobody else will be none the wiser”

"mhmm” They wait until Jack disappears before spot dunks a rag into the warm water and presses it against Races cheek, huffing when he pulls away “Don’t be stubborn." 

They blink at each other before Race lets him dab at the blood. They work together in silence, Spots hands make Race feel safe and there’s a gentleness in the tough guys touches. 

Soon the blood is washed away, dissolved in the warmth of the water. Racer looks a lot more like the man Spot fell in love with 

That night, they sit on the couch and listen to the sounds of new york.The sunds of couples in love and they holds each others hands. Race ends up falling asleep, resting his head on Spots shoulder.


End file.
